


Quiet Moments In the Dark

by damaskrose



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: (mostly), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Everyone Is Alive, Genocide, Grief/Mourning, Hoth, Jedha, M/M, Reflection, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 05:21:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14585844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damaskrose/pseuds/damaskrose
Summary: This, he always thinks, is the best part of loving Chirrut. Quiet moments in the dark, when the world is only as big as the space between their bodies, when the cares of the world slip away until they are only Baze and Chirrut, two shapes in the dark, and not guardians who have seen so much more tragedy than they ever expected.





	Quiet Moments In the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Um, so I wrote this back in 2016, but I guess I'm posting it now?  
> I love my gay space-Asian grandpas who are DEFINITELY alive and well.  
> Someone once described this as "the most angsty bed-sharing fic I've ever read." Here you go, I guess.

In the darkest part of his mind where he locks away his worst thoughts, those brutal truths he tries to deny but knows he can't, Baze has always thought Chirrut would die first.

Chirrut is like that, you see. All that loyalty and faith and fervor and reckless courage welded together in a way that means he'd always,  _ always _ be willing to die for what he believes. All that calm, that skill, but no preservation skills to go with them, as Baze often grumbles.

And Baze? He's not like that. He's just a man with a gun. The only thing he believes in is Chirrut.

Chirrut is a martyr walking, a legend in the making. In years to come, on planets they've never visited, they'll tell stories of the blind guardian. Baze is just the shadow that walks behind him, the name they'll scratch their heads for even as Chirrut's falls from reverent lips with ease, and he's made peace with that. Mostly.

Because of this, he's always thought he's known how it will go down. First Chirrut, in some blaze of glory, probably, some selfless act of bravery that will echo across the galaxy, and then Baze will fall soon after.

Neither of them are meant for dying of old age, he's always thought.

But in all the years of imagining their deaths-fast deaths, slow deaths, quick ones or painless ones, forgotten ones and legendary ones-Baze has never imagined he'd be the one to do Chirrut in himself.

"You can't  _ possibly _ need all of that blanket for yourself," Baze grouses, tugging one of the blankets toward him.

"Oh, but I do," Chirrut assures him serenely, tugging right back. "I'm cold."

" _ Hoth _ is cold. We're  _ all _ cold." Even in the barracks-which are merely freezing, not subzero-some of the rebels have taken to wearing their coats in bed. "Scoot over." Chirrut obliges until Baze isn't in danger of falling of the bed.

Hoth really  _ is _ cold. In the morning his joints always feel like they've been frozen together, and his breath plumes in the hallway. Nights, at least, have Chirrut to keep him warm. When he isn't being an ass, that is.

"Cassian is lucky," Chirrut says. "I bet his room has  _ heating _ ." He says it with the wistfulness only a man who's never had to deal with subzero temperatures before could have.

It's not that their room is bad or anything-just sterile, with empty white canvas walls, buzzing lights Baze can feel in his teeth, and two military-grade cots they pushed together nights ago-but complaints are an old pattern, a rut worn with time and familiarity, one of the things that isn't unfamiliar on this planet.

"That's because Cassian is a general now," Baze points out. "And I bet he doesn't have to deal with someone stealing all their blankets, either."

Chirrut shifts over and gives him a sly look. "Oh, I don't know about that. I've heard that our dear general might be...seeing someone?"

"Who?" Baze demands. Blast it, how does Chirrut always seem to know twice as much gossip as his sighted comrades? But then again, trapped on Hoth for the moment, there isn't much else to do besides check weapons and watch over your shoulder for the Empire. Baze tries not to take the peace for granted, though. "Jyn? Bodhi?"

But Chirrut just rolls over, bedsprings creaking. "Not my place to say."

Baze wonders if the people who see Chirrut as some kind of blind Jedi mystic know how infuriating he can really be.

"Cassian can do whatever he wants," Baze says, shifting until the bedsprings don't dig into his spine. He reaches around Chirrut and clicks off the light, settles back with a sigh. The air is chilly, sure, but the bed is slowly warming up, and Chirrut is warm and heavy in his arms.

This, he always thinks, is the best part of loving Chirrut. Quiet moments in the dark, when the world is only as big as the space between their bodies, when the cares of the world slip away until they are only Baze and Chirrut, two shapes in the dark, and not guardians who have seen so much more tragedy than they ever expected.

The years seem to melt away in the dark, until Chirrut could be the same rawboned monk who first joined the ranks of the guardians, and Baze the lanky boy who would have followed him, mostly willingly, to the ends of the galaxy. Until they're the two boys who chased each other through the dusty markets of Jedha, ducking underneath arms and tables. Until they're the teenagers who slept in each other's arms beneath the stars when the temple got too hot during the summer months and they fled to the roof and its cooling breezes.

Except... "Blast, are those your feet? They're like blocks of ice."

Chirrut doesn't say anything, and for a moment Baze thinks he might be asleep already. Then: "I miss Jedha."

At those words, Baze feels like he's been socked in the stomach, like a shard of ice is digging its way through his heart. They've been tiptoeing around Jedha for weeks, it feels like. Trying to ignore the little hitches that come whenever one of them complains about Hoth's coldness but trails off before the inevitable  _ Not like Jedha _ . Whenever one of the rebels mentions it in passing. Whenever Baze complains he doesn't have enough spare ammo, but doesn't mention it's because all his extra was on Jedha.

Jedha is like a black hole they try to avoid during the day, is how Baze thinks of it. At night, though, when the years and the unsaid things peel away, it's hard not to fall into it.

It's just so monumental, the fact that it's gone. The marketplaces, the temple where they trained, their little adobe house, all their childhood haunts, the ruins in the desert. The people. All of it, gone, buried in a roaring storm of sand and heat.

And Baze has to not fall into that hole, because if he does, he's not sure he could get out again.

He realizes that a long moment has passed, and he hasn't said anything. He pulls Chirrut closer, pulls him tight enough that he never wants to let go. "I know," Baze says, and for once he doesn't hate the crack in his voice when he says it. "I know," he says again. "Sometimes I remember it and I can't breathe it hurts so much."

Chirrut rolls over to face Baze-not to see him, of course, but close enough that Baze can feel his breath on his face. "What do you do when that happens?" Baze can practically feel the words on his cheek. In them are all the weeks of silence, of careful not talking and not thinking of Jedha, of all the loss they've tried not to face in case they can't come back from that.

Baze pulls Chirrut even closer, until their foreheads touch and the world is just the breathe-warm space between them. "When that happens," he says fiercely, "When it  happens, I tell myself that we're taking the Empire down. That there will be justice. That Jedha will be remembered. And I tell myself how we'll do that."

"How's that?" Chirrut's voice is full of all the longing, all the hope that he had when they first joined the temple, that he's never lost since. It's a little unnerving, the way he seeks reassurance now. Chirrut has always been the one who charges ahead, Baze the one following after, probably grumbling.

"Like always. Together."


End file.
